


The April Fool

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: April Fools' Day, First Kiss, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia has a Bad Day, Love Confessions, M/M, Men Crying, Misunderstandings, Near Death Experiences, Roach Ships It (The Witcher), Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23440288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: In retrospect, perhaps it wasn't the best idea for Jaskier to attempt to confess his feelings on April Fool's Day.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 377





	The April Fool

“ _ Jaskier,” _ the bard’s mouth snaps shut, teeth colliding with an audible  _ clack _ . He’s uncomfortably familiar with  _ that _ tone of voice－though its admittedly been awhile since he’s been on the receiving end of it－and he knows that, somehow, some way, he’s managed to fuck this up. 

Cut him some slack, okay? It’s not every day you confess your undying love for a Witcher, after all. But he’d put a great deal of thought into what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it, and he’d  _ thought _ that it was going rather well, all things considered… until he’d looked up and caught a glimpse of Geralt staring at him with those impossibly wide amber eyes, looking like he’d been caught on the receiving end of a sucker-punch to the gut. And while Jaskier is not overly familiar with rejection, he’s fairly certain that Geralt shouldn’t be looking at him like he’d just murdered Roach in cold blood. If he doesn’t feel the same, that’s fine (though it’s a bit of a bitter pill to swallow, considering he’d been  _ so very sure _ that Geralt felt the same); he doesn’t need to make him feel like shit for deigning to think he had a chance.

Geralt takes a seat in front of the fire, his back to Jaskier, and their little camp descends into an awkward silence. All hopes of relaxing in a warm bed, nestled amidst freshly-laundered linens, had been dashed when Geralt had realized the townsfolk had pulled a rather cruel prank, sending them into the thick of the woods to slay a werewolf that didn’t actually exist. With no head to claim, there was no coin to be had, which meant that they’d wasted the last several days－and spent the last little bit of their coin along the way－for nothing. And now they were broke, down to the final dregs of their rations, in the middle of nowhere, with the next nearest town still several days’ journey away. Geralt’s frustration, borne in part from being swindled by the lackwitted cur that had sent them on this wild goose chase in the first place, and in part due to the fact that he hadn’t eaten in… come to think of it, Jaskier couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Geralt eat…

Jaskier leaves the Witcher to his wallowing, and makes his way over to Roach instead, forcing a small smile to his lips when she greets him with a curious whinny. Geralt’s bag is still attached to her saddle, and he fishes through the contents until he comes across the length of netting Geralt had used to fish the djinn from the stream. He might not be much of a hunter, but he’s confident that he can secure a few fish－it’s the least he can do, considering that Geralt had been cutting back to ensure that the bard was well-fed… well, that the bard wasn’t about to keel over from starvation, at least. Roach headbutts him in the chest, hard enough to send him stumbling back a few paces toward Geralt. He stifles a soft, self-deprecating laugh－if she’d seen how hard her master had put him down earlier, she wouldn’t be pushing him off in his direction.

There’s a stream nearby, and he makes his way there carefully, ever-cognizant of the uneven terrain dotting the landscape. He sets himself up on a large rock jutting out of the side of the bed of water, casting out the net and praying it doesn’t snag on anything sharp in the dark. Geralt has every right to be upset, he thinks. He’d like to go back and give those assholes what-for, but he knows that that would be foolish－he’s made enough of an ass of himself already, and he doesn’t want to cause the Witcher more trouble by forcing him to come and clean up his messes. If he doesn’t want him, that’s  _ fine _ , he won’t cause him unnecessary trouble. He’ll just catch some fish to fry up for dinner, and give Geralt one less thing to sulk over, and go to sleep happy, knowing he could do at least that much. And so he shifts the net, attempting to compensate for the ferocity of the rushing water… and his foot  _ slips _ . The world  _ spins _ as he stumbles and－

A thick arm catches him around the middle, stopping him seconds before he would’ve been dragged into the roaring waters. He blinks, realizing that Geralt’s face is very,  _ very _ close to his own. “...Hi.”

Geralt hums softly, though his amber eyes are still wide with panic. Jaskier is close enough that he can feel the Witcher’s heart beat, which is now  _ thumping _ away at a speed comparable to that of an ordinary human.  _ Interesting _ . “Hi,” he breathes, voice scarce above a whisper.

“I was just… fishing.” Jaskier says, blue eyes flickering to the net that’s bobbing idly in the water. He realizes, absently, that Geralt’s grip on him isn’t loosening, and he clears his throat awkwardly. “I, uh… figured that you might appreciate some food, after the day you’ve had. So if you’d just－,”

“You were… gone.” He says, and Jaskier stops attempting to wiggle out of the Witcher’s hold, drawing in a shaky breath as he older man continues, “I... “ his fingers close tight around Jaskier’s hip, his grip damn near bruising, “You should’ve told me where you were going.”

There’s something raw and honest in what Geralt is saying, and it makes his chest ache in an oddly sweet way. “I just went fishing, Geralt. It’s not as though I went hunting wild boar with my bare hands.”

“This isn’t a joke!” He snaps, eyes wild. “You almost… You could’ve…” 

“Geralt…” the Witcher’s walls come tumbling down, the combination of hunger, exhaustion, and stress leaving him particularly emotionally vulnerable. Jaskier is struck with the sudden desire to hug him. 

Geralt inhales shakily, and breathes, “If you had died before I had the chance to tell you that I… that I…” he licks his lips, lowering his eyes as crystalline tears collect on his long, ebony lashes. “I’d never forgive you.”

“Oi, how would that be  _ my _ fault? I tried to confess to you earlier, and you shot me down!” Jaskier exclaims, suddenly indignant. The nerve of this man, to blame  _ him _ for something that was  _ entirely _ his own fault!

Geralt is silent for a long while, before he breaks eye contact to mumble, “I… thought that you were making fun of me.”

His confession is like a lightning bolt through the heart. His first reaction is to be furious－when has he ever acted in such a way that would imply he would play such a cruel trick, and on the White Wolf, of all people? But there’s a tiny voice in the back of his head, telling him that Geralt’s day has been actual horseshit, and perhaps he didn’t do himself any favors by deciding to choose that particular moment to confess. It still hurts, but… not nearly as bad. He reaches up slowly, using the pad of his thumb to sweep away the tears that roll down Geralt’s beautifully sculpted cheeks, his eyes drifting over the sharp line of his nose, the plump smoothness of his lips, the soft dotting of silver stubble across his chin… He realizes, dazedly, that he wants to kiss him. Has wanted to for awhile. But the impulse is especially strong in that moment, bundled in his arms, the Witcher radiant like starlight against the black velvet sky.

Geralt moves first, initiating a tentative press of lips that speaks of hunger and passion and long-suppressed feelings that’ve yet to be fully explored. His grip on Jaskier’s hip loosens; instead, an arm curls around his shoulders, dragging him in tight against a broad chest. Geralt is all sharp lines and firm, unrelenting muscle, but fuck if cuddled up to his chest, soft, silver-white curls tickling his bare skin, is not the most comfortable place in the world. Jaskier doesn’t want to move, save for parting his lips to allow the Witcher’s tongue to explore the inside of his mouth with slow, lazy strokes that leave him quivering, desperate for something he’d thought to be impossible just a short while ago. Geralt breaks the kiss, and he lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched keen, finding himself leaning forward, desperately chasing that sensation once again…

Geralt’s lips quirk up in a small smirk, as his thumb traces over Jaskier’s swollen bottom lip. “Say it again. Please.”

Jaskier blinks dumbly for a moment, before he realizes what it is Geralt is actually asking him for. His heart swells, his vision swimming as he’s suddenly overwrought with an embarrassing amount of emotion. “I… I love you, Geralt.”

This time, Geralt smiles fully, and Jaskier’s heart flutters and  _ stops _ , because no creature has the right to be so earth-shatteringly beautiful. He already knows that he’ll do whatever is within his power to make sure that Geralt keeps smiling like that for the rest of his days. “And I you, little lark.”

And then he kisses him again: soft, gentle,  _ sweet _ .

Perfect. 


End file.
